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Sunday, January 29, 2017

I don’t usually get too personal here; this is a writing
blog after all. But this week I guess
you could say I lost a writing partner of sorts. My little tortie cat girl, Stinky the Cat,
left us on Friday, January 27th, 2017. She was a month shy of twenty years of age, a
hell of an age for a cat, but then she was a hell of a cat.

I didn’t have Stinky all those twenty years; she came to
me an adult cat as part of a package deal that included my wife and two cats. It was a pretty good deal. My wife and I will celebrate our tenth
wedding anniversary in March, and I had thirteen wonderful years with Stinky
the Cat in my life. (and eleven and a
half with Miss Piggy, the other cat)

Miss Piggy and Stinky - 2007

Stinky and I bonded right away—she was partial to men,
and to men with beards particularly—she liked to climb in my lap and rub her
head against my unshaven chin all the time. She
has pretty much been by my side for the last decade or so while I’ve been
writing, a perfect writer’s familiar if there ever was one. So if you’ve ever read any of my work, know
that Stinky was there when it was created.

There’s so much I could tell you about Stinky, I could go
on and on. That’s what I was going to do
when I started this post. But a little
poem I wrote for her last Sunday keeps coming to mind. I wasn’t going to share it, but it perhaps
says what I want to say about her as good as any other writing I could do. So, here it is, then.

For Stinky

You're getting ready to go...

All the signs are there

My sweet friend,

You won't eat; you're wont to sleep,

More so than usual

And you're sluggish when you're not

Days like this are trying

And difficult to face

But I find

With the thoughts of the good times

That we have shared

I can get through them.

I never knew you as a kitten

Though I hear you were a fine one

A palm-sized tortie fur baby

Of epic cute felinity

That pleaded "pick me, pick me"

From the dark depths of the pound

Such were the beginnings of your long

Adventurous life

No, you were a full-grown cat when we met

And a feisty one at that

But we seemed to strike a chord

You and I

And we were soon fast friends

Confidants, co-conspirators

And partners in crime.

You took a place by my side

Or curled at my feet, dreaming your cat dreams

While I worked

My world a great deal better

With your presence

I like to think.

Oh, what times we had

You and I

Good times of sweet and carefree joy

Like watching you stroll the grass of the back yard

In the warm afternoon sun

Or stalk a lizard

Or send wayward cats packing

That dared to breach your territory.

You were always up for a good ear rubbing

Or a nuzzle of your nose against my beard

Or sometimes, just to lie gently in my lap

Your microscopic purr a sign of utter contentment.

I wish I could somehow express to you

How much rich and true happiness

You've brought to my life.

But maybe, just maybe

Through the sound of my voice

And little cat treats

And some catnip here and there

And lots of love...

You've known it all along.

You've walked this world for nigh on

Twenty years

Spreading out your nine lives

With cat-grace and aplomb.

A great and rich life you've had

My sweet friend.

I don't want to say goodbye

Sweet girl

But I guess I'm glad I have the time

To do so.

I can't seem to pet you enough today

Or hold you in my arms time and again

One more time. One more time,

One more stroke of that soft, dark fur.

Not to wax maudlin

You're not that sort of cat

But the unequivocal love you've given me

Will live forever in my soul.

And you'll be with me

My sweet friend, my sweet girl,

Always.

--Chris
Owen

1/22/17

I’ve always had a fondness for cats. They are certainly interesting, mysterious
yet utterly cute creatures. I’ve always wanted
to write a cat related novel as well, particularly after I came across the following in
a book of French paintings.

It’s called The Apotheosis of Cats, and I was struck by
it immediately. Yes, it is just a bizarre
image, but somehow compelling. What are
all those cats doing? Where are they? What is that sort of cat-idol thing in
the distance? I don’t know, but I
decided I would figure it out. I would write a
novel based on this painting.

I’ve had that in the back of my head for years, but I’ve
never really known what direction to go with it. I knew I wanted it to be mysterious and
magical the way cats are, with some Neil Gaiman/Louis Carroll/Ray Bradbury
trappings. But this project never had
really gotten off the ground.

Then this week happened.
I found I was too distraught to work on my current writing project. I needed to write something else—something about
cats. And so I started this novel. Just a page, but it’s begun. And, I’m glad to
think that I got to start this, my cat novel, while Stinky was still around. And now that she is gone, writing it will certainly help me deal. I have a feeling she will figure prominently in
it—my old writing partner, after all, deserves nothing less.